


tales from room 102

by guide_to_the_galaxy



Category: Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (Cartoon 2018), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Action, Action & Romance, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Irma is a big ol lesbian, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Themes, Light Angst, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 10:16:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17444996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guide_to_the_galaxy/pseuds/guide_to_the_galaxy
Summary: New York changed sometime in between Irma getting her first big journal for her eighth birthday and a training bra for her thirteenth- and not just because her own personal world was evolving either.In which Irma wants a serious gig, April might be in love and the boys are somewhere in the middle of all that.





	tales from room 102

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lesbian-April](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Lesbian-April).



> this is super duper inspired by lesbian-april's incredible rottmnt version of irma! Please take a look at the amazing artwork my bud made of her @ lesbian-april.tumblr.com! 
> 
> anyway welcome to the prelude of another multichap fic of gay teens solving mysteries.

New York changed sometime in between Irma getting her first big journal for her eighth birthday and a training bra for her thirteenth- and not just because her own personal world was evolving either.

It was just...always a weird place, New York; the kind of weird that's also familiar so...it’s really not that strange at all. The closer you'd get to Times Square, the funnier and more distorted life was, and, alternatively, the more familiar and un-bothersome it got.

It was a damn good place to be a journalist.

But that, of course, was after the big 8 and before the training bra so Irma really could never imagine her ambitions for a good story would go beyond corrupt corporations and forced fluff- but incredibly thoughtful- pieces on how much dogs empathize, and occasionally, hidden, uncovered writings on monsters and why they so _definitely_ exist.

Especially when people swore they'd see their favorite bodega owner turn half-goat as he went for a smoke, or that the kid on their bus could spit venom. That...wasn't just New York weird. It was an advanced sort of peculiarity that no one but Youtubers and Snapchat stories covered.

The _urban legend_ sort.

The very sort that intrigued Irma Langinstein: Junior Detective of all things Cryptic and _beyond weird._

Of course, though, every great detective needs an uber complicated sub-plot to their lives. And thank god Irma had that in _spades._

* * *

 

Irma wears a skull tee under her sweater sometimes. Not because she's _goth_ or anything. It just makes her feel hardcore, sitting in front of the little box television in her little kitchen, scarfing down spoonfuls of Fruit Loops graciously mixed with Fruity Pebbles.

Her boss, Warren, was going on about...a lot of shit only he really cared about, which in a way was somewhat admirable; he simply really didn't care what others thought open his think pieces and rants on public news- the kind of fantastical thing Irma's dreamt up for herself.

Whenever she steps it up to the ranks.

Right now though, she's playing her cards right, getting a feel for the industry and artistry of journalism, interning between long hours of high school, debate and journalism clubs and perfecting the purple streak in her hair- and maybe, finding a date to the Halloween dance.

If she had time for that.

Maybe.

(Halloween dances _were_ incredibly fun) but what about a case? cases were fun. who the hell needs a date?) _we do, genuis!)))_

“Dates...are stupid,” she says to herself, hoping it sounds convincing as she finishes the last spoonfuls, absorbing the last few seconds of Mr. Stone's ambiance, before shutting off the T.V and heading over to the sink.

Dumping her bowl in, Irma clears her throat, spoon a few inches from her lips.

“Good evening, everyone and welcome back to the-”

* * *

“Irma Langinstein show? C'mon girl that sounds...that just _sounds_ like a bag'a crazy. You hear _that-_ and you automatically think ‘aliens’. Period.”

Irma wishes she didn't break her old Beats running towards a gas leak explosion in Bay Ridge.

“Not to be rude. But your name is totally mad-scientist vibes. Is it...like uh, German?”

_Jewish, asshole. Please shut up._

Retaliation is meaningless; Irma continues to scribble in her journal, knees pressed up against the torn fabric of the bus seats. And honestly, Irma never really bothered to catch this girl's name despite it being weeks into school...and them riding the same buses since they went to P.S. 195.

It's just...Irma never really bothered with useless conversation _or_ information; seeing as she would never initiate conversation with the girl, knowing her name at all seems pointless.

She just knew she had faux curls and blonde hair and really droopy eyes.

“It's just. A lot of people? When they get, y'know, famous? They gotta change their names or else-”

“I'm _sorry,”_ Irma says, gripping her pencil tighter, and glaring down at her notes on a lead- a lead about the disappearance of a kid after the Bay Ridge explosion. “But did I ever _ask_ you to talk? Ever? To me? Or did you seriously just invade my _personal space?_ Not to be rude, I'm genuinely curious.”

The girl- she just stares back at Irma, owlish and stunned silent.

“Fucking weirdo,” she murmurs when the bus stops, making sure it was loud enough for the other kids around her to laugh along, though they had no idea really _why,_ as they pile off the bus.

And Irma waits, and waits. Till she's the last one and it's _quiet._ And in a brief moment, before she gets up, Irma is at complete bliss.

* * *

 

Things also got weird when Irma hit puberty. Where before her only interests were writing and monsters and _writing about monsters-_ suddenly the few girls in her gym class were the most gorgeous creatures in...in the entirety of the universe and it _never stopped._

Changing in front of them felt like exposure and being around girls felt like suicide and poison. Hands get clammy, throat closing up. _Awful._

She tried Sciencing™ it away. Read books in the library after 7th grade journalism club. She tried asking the internet, and got a plethora of quizzes, and would watch videos of some girls kissing to see if that made sense (then felt butterflies in her stomach, heart fluttering. heart attack symptom?).

She tried staring at the girls through binoculars as they skated down her street and no evidence could explain her.

Even when she got a 100% on the _Buzzfeed: Am I a Lesbian?_ quiz.

There was just no making sense of it.

And then, after suppressing and burying it all, and a few awkward school years later, she met April O'neil.

Kinda.

* * *

 

“Okay bitches-” her camera is wavering as she runs, her sweater and jacket heavy and sneakers scraping over gravel as she rounds the corner.

“I'm about to catch _the_ biggest catch ever. On...video.”

Real news reporters don't say ‘okay bitches’, but Irma lets it slide and pass off as the adrenaline of what could be her first big break at Warren Stone's station. And he could finally freaking _give her a shot_.

She grins, accelerating a bit as the noise of a battle gets closer overhead.

It started just above her roof, and continued east bound. And Irma was just grateful she had caught a lousy, blurred out picture of a _green foot._

Three- toed. _Alien._

_“What the hell? Mikey! Gimme a lift-”_

_“On it!”_

_“Hey anyone seen April?”_

_“Yo! April?!”_

A sound, like a...like a ray gun, trippy portal opening up, rings and pops Irma’s ears out before all the battle noises just...stop. Cut off like they were never even  _there,_ and Irma skids to a stop, panning her camera up at the rooftops.

“Holy- ugh _no,_ no, no. Where'd they _go?”_

She feels heat build up, frustrated and tired and a hungry, angry kind of thing. Because Irma _wants this._ More than anything _she wants this._ And it slips away just before she can get a hold of it- these little happenings in New York. These almost too perfect mysteries.

Balling her fist, she kicks the dumpster in the alley. Someone yells, muffled and Irma stumbles back, reaching for her pepper spray and pushing up her glasses as the dumpster rattles.

And out pops the most glamorous looking person with crooked cat-eyed glasses, covered in garbage that Irma has ever seen, if she's ever seen one.

Irma doesn't believe in love at first sight- she's never experienced it outside of books she's read on myths and the glorious articulation of a modern woman's Ted Talks but-

 _Damn,_ this girl can make an exception.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So excited for this fic! I resonate with Irma, and especially Lesbian-April's Irma so, so much and I hope you guys do too!! 
> 
> she's...in for a bit if an adventure. both within and without si stay tuned!


End file.
